I never imagined that a seemingly routine Monday morning at Belmonte Couture would upend everything I thought I knew about myself. As Head of the Men's Casting Department, I was accustomed to precision—cropped briefings, measured compliments, and flawless tailoring. I oversaw a steady parade of chiselled faces and angular bodies, each one auditioning to become the new face of our menswear line. My own reflection in the full-length mirror was a study in composed masculinity: dark hair slicked back, a tailored charcoal suit embracing broad shoulders, and a perfectly knotted tie resting against a crisp shirt. Yet beneath my veneer of control, anxiety churned like a storm gathering strength on the horizon.
Her name was Vivienne Leclair. Fresh from Paris, she had been appointed Senior Designer for the upcoming Spring collection, and her reputation preceded her: fearless, uncompromising, and—according to the gossip drifting through the halls—merciless when it came to enforcing her own standards. I'd met her only briefly during orientation, but her presence lingered long after she'd moved on to her studio. I had glimpsed her in the cafeteria: tall, patrician features framed by raven-black hair, red lips curved in an expression that suggested she was always evaluating, always judging.
This morning, I arrived at my office to a slender envelope waiting on my desk, simply addressed to "Mr. Aldridge." Inside, a single card bore her elegant script:
"Meet me at Studio 4. I have a personal directive that concerns you. –V."
My heart thudded. Studio 4 was where she conducted fittings and photoshoots. Nothing in my schedule had prepared me to see her so urgently. As midday light spilled across my polished floor, I closed my office door with a sense of foreboding and strolled down the corridor to the studio.
Vivienne sat behind her drafting table, arms crossed as though she were the Empress herself. On the table lay sketches of frothy skirts, slinky blouses, and delicate lace—pieces clearly intended for women. I cleared my throat. "Ms. Leclair, you summoned—"
She silenced me with a lifted hand. The faint click of her stiletto heels on the concrete floor sounded like a drumbeat. "You know why I asked you here, Daniel," she said, voice cool and measured. Her eyes bored into mine. "This week, I need you to model my prototype for the Spring Women's line."
I blinked. "I'm sorry?" My professional brain scrambled. "I oversee male models. I don't… model."
Vivienne leaned forward, hands flat on the table, as though to pin me by sheer will. "I'm fully aware. That is precisely why this is important."
I swallowed, pulse accelerating. "I don't understand."
Her lips curved into a wry smile. "I have certain… criteria for determining how well a model can embody my designs. I need to see how these garments fit on every type of form. You're head of Men's Casting—surely you appreciate the value of firsthand experience."
I forced a polite smile, masking my outrage. "I appreciate experimentation, but—"
"Mr. Aldridge," she interrupted softly, "I have my own code. I'm not speaking on behalf of Belmonte Couture; I speak for myself. If you refuse, I will simply find someone else. Only I know that you have the physique and discipline to meet my standards. I'll need you to be there this afternoon. Garments, shoes, makeup—everything will be provided. My assistant will prepare a dressing room."
Her words lingered: "I have my own code." It meant this was her personal rule, not an official policy, and I felt a shiver of unease. She knew my colleagues adored my tact—yet still, I was powerless beneath her gaze. It was as if a familiar, private shame had been ripped into full light.
I nodded. "Of course, Ms. Leclair."
She studied me for a heartbeat longer before dismissing me with a slight nod of her head.
Later that afternoon, I wandered into Studio 4, where soft natural light filtered through floor-to-ceiling windows. An assistant—pale, eager—held a rack draped in pastel dresses, skirts, and sheer stockings. On a separate table lay sleek pumps with pointed toes, a selection of wigs, and an array of cosmetics. The assistant's gaze flicked to mine, uncertain whether to offer sympathy or amusement.
My heart pounded like a furious machine. For years, I had kept my secret obsession hidden—a yearning to surrender, to feel the silk against my skin, to be examined and directed. But that desire had been relegated to late-night fantasies, safely practiced behind closed doors. Now, under the bright bulbs of the studio, I felt exposed before Vivienne's exacting eyes.
She arrived then, clad in a crisply tailored black suit, heels clicking with authority. She flicked her gaze over my unfortunate slacks and stiff shirt. "Change into the romper first," she instructed, pointing to a delicate, pale-pink piece adorned with lace. "And we'll begin."
I exhaled uneasily and retreated to the dressing room. Inside, the clothes seemed impossibly small—designed for slender female bodies. I peeled off my suit jacket and trousers, revealing boxers and undershirt. The romper barely zipped around my chest; I struggled, cheeks burning. My instincts screamed to flee, but Vivienne's directive echoed in my mind. I forced my arms through the sleeves and felt the lace's soft edges brush against my underarms. The sensation both thrilled and mortified me: fabric that should have felt alien now coaxing a frisson of inevitability.
Stepping back into the studio, I wobbled slightly on my feet. My calves ached from the stiletto heels—so different from the sturdy loafers I usually wore. Vivienne surveyed me like a sculptor assessing raw marble. The harsh light revealed every line of my face: jaw clenched, eyes wide, lips parted.
"Show me how you walk," she commanded.
I tried to stand straighter, focus on the far wall's reflection. Each step felt like a public broadcast of my humiliation—heels wobbling, skirt riding high, chest pinched by lace. My thighs brushed together, the fabric of the romper snug against my body, every nerve ending ablaze. Each step shook confidence I didn't possess; my knees jolted with each tentative movement.
"Slower," she murmured from behind her drafting table. "Sashay. Confidence, Daniel. If you want these to look perfect, you must embody the attitude, not just the garment."
Her words were a whip. I bit down on my bottom lip, summoning a posture I had only ever seen on runways—neck elongated, hips tilted, eyes focused on some invisible goal. My steps grew steadier, but the trembling never fully left me. I felt every pair of eyes in the room, though I could see none of them.
Finally, she signaled to her photographer. Flashbulbs erupted. I halted at the center of the studio, frozen, as the camera fired in rapid succession. Each click sent a shiver up my spine. The flashes burned away any pretense of seclusion—my crossdressing laid bare before the lens. I felt as though even the walls were judging me.
As the shoot progressed, Vivienne directed my expressions. "Slightly pout your lips," she said. "Lift your chin. Now tilt your head to the left. Hold it."
I complied, charmed and insulted all at once by her precise commands. The red lights on the camera ceased only after I realized my thighs were slick with sweat, my heart pounding to a fever pitch. When the session ended, I thought to flee the room, but Vivienne beckoned me to stay.
"Wear the ensemble tomorrow," she said, handing me a small slip of paper with instructions. "You'll present it during the store's window reveal. No substitutions."
I stared at her, perplexed. "A reveal?"
"A live showcase," she replied, eyes gleaming. "At six sharp. You'll step out from behind the curtain in this five-minute presentation. There will be a small crowd of selected clients and some press. You must appear exactly as you are now—no changes."
I felt bile rise in my throat. A live audience. My trembling hands closed around the paper as though trying to crush it. "I… I don't know if I can—"
She cut me off with a single gesture. "You will. That is the next step in my personal code. You've begun this journey. Now, you'll see it through."
I left the studio in a daze, clutching the clothes that had felt like a second skin, and spent the rest of the afternoon in my office, staring at the pale-pink romper hanging limply on a hanger. Doubt and shame entwined in my gut like a snake. How could I stand before a crowd, crossdressed, exposed by Vivienne's whims? Yet a part of me—deep and feral—longed for exactly that: to be shown off, to be claimed.
The next evening, I found myself pacing behind the black velvet curtain of the boutique's mezzanine-level window. My heart thundered as the murmurs of a well-heeled audience drifted through the curtains. I smoothed the romper again, trying to steady the camera that had been strapped to my side to record the event. Vivienne was beside me, immaculate in a custom-cut blazer over an ankle-length silk skirt. She placed a light hand on my shoulder.
"Are you prepared?" she asked, though her voice was more command than question.
My throat felt thick, but I nodded. "Yes, Ms. Leclair."
She offered nothing more by way of comfort. Instead, she withdrew, motioning me toward the slit in the curtain. The seam opened slowly, and a stage light snapped on, bathing me in a stark white beam. My stomach dove. I blinked against the brightness, saw a semicircle of faces: clients in designer suits, journalists scribbling notes, photographers clicking away. My breath came in short gasps as I stepped forward, heels clicking on the polished wood floor.
I tried to hold my gaze steady, recalling Vivienne's instructions: Confidence. Inside, I felt like a trembling child; on the outside, I attempted to channel a professional demeanor. The pink romper clung to my body, lace tracing my collarbone, emphasizing the hollow at my throat. Every curve of my hips had been tailored to accentuate femininity. The unnerving awareness that I was out of place, both body and mind, spurred me forward.
A hush fell over the crowd as I reached the center. I halted, willed myself to breathe evenly, and met their eyes—some curious, some amused, a few clearly questioning how this man had ended up here. I lifted one arm, then the other, allowing the fabric to catch the light, revealing how it shimmered across my skin. I swished my hips, deliberately, feeling goosebumps rise in response to the silent scrutiny.
There, under the spotlight, I felt everything converge: my fear, my arousal, my shame. I imagined Vivienne at the edge of the curtain, arms crossed, evaluating every flicker of emotion that crossed my face. The weight of her gaze was heavier than any collar. I straightened my back, chin raised, and allowed my posture to speak for me: I was a model, even if the clothes on my back belonged to a woman.
When the five minutes stretched on, my legs shook so badly I thought I might collapse. Then, as abruptly as it had begun, the stage light snapped off. The hush fractured into polite applause. I retreated behind the curtain, the sudden darkness swallowing me whole. My knees buckled, and Vivienne caught me, guiding me to a nearby chair.
She regarded me with an inscrutable expression. "Begin writing your report on this experience. Describe how it felt—every moment of exposure, every jolt of embarrassment. I want a detailed analysis by tomorrow morning."
I summoned enough composure to nod. "Yes, Ms. Leclair."
She turned, regal as ever, and strode away, leaving me trembling in the shadows, the echo of polite applause still ringing in my ears.
Back in my apartment, I carefully removed the romper and placed it into a garment bag—an artifact of both defeat and triumph. My reflection in the mirror was haunted: dark circles under my eyes, cheeks still flushed, a faint tremor in my hands. I pulled out a notebook and scribbled by lamplight:
I felt my entire being throb under every eye in that room. For five minutes, I existed solely as a spectacle—an object of curiosity and, perhaps for some, amusement. The fabric clung to my skin like a confession. Each flash of the camera was a spotlight on my blood rushing through my veins. At first, I wanted to disappear. But then, in the calculated distance between Vivienne's gaze and my own, I recognized something new: a thrill in the vulnerability, a fierce desire to be seen—even like this.
Pain and shame coiled in my chest as I wrote. I remembered each gasp, each bead of sweat that traced down my spine. By the time I closed my notebook, exhaustion had silenced my racing heart. Yet, even as fatigue tugged at my limbs, I felt a flicker of something else: anticipation.
Tomorrow, I would hand my report to Vivienne, baring my thoughts and fears. And I knew she would press further, demanding more of my submission. But beneath that dread lay a deeper truth: I had discovered something within myself during those five minutes under the lights. An unspoken hunger, waiting to be unleashed.
The next morning, I delivered my analysis on time. Vivienne read it in silence, her expression betraying little. At the end, she looked up and traced a finger along a specific line: "I recognized a thrill in the vulnerability." She tapped the words. "Precisely. You are learning what it means to surrender completely. This is only the beginning, Mr. Aldridge."
As I walked back to my office, I felt the world recalibrate around me. The corridors seemed narrower, the sleek marble floors colder, and the distant murmur of shoes clicking against tile resonated with newfound resonance. I was no longer just Head of Men's Casting. In Vivienne's eyes, I had become something more—her living canvas, poised between pride and humiliation, exploring the delicate edges of identity.
And with every step, I knew I would return to her studio, ready to be guided again. Because the silk, the lace, and the delicate pink fabric had shown me a side of myself I could never unlearn. I had become her sissy—surrendered mind, body, and soul—and I was perfectly, irrevocably hers.
The next morning, I paused outside Vivienne's office, the envelope tight in my hand. My fingers itched to slide the pages back into their sleeve, but I hesitated, heart pounding. In the solitude of my apartment, I'd re-read that line—"I recognized a thrill in the vulnerability"—and felt my face burn. If she saw it, she'd know exactly how far I'd let myself go under her gaze. Shame curled in my chest like acid. With a last, panicked glance down the corridor, I slipped the analysis into the trash can by the water cooler, crumpled and torn, and tucked the empty envelope into my pocket. I rehearsed my excuse in my mind, willing myself to sound calm.
When I knocked, Vivienne looked up immediately, her gaze sharper than any fine-tipped pencil she used for design sketches. "Mr. Aldridge. Your report?"
My voice probably cracked as I said, "I'm sorry, Ms. Leclair. I—there were a few details left. I need another day."
Her eyes narrowed. The silence stretched, heavy and accusing. Then she stood, crossing the room with long, deliberate strides that made my heart stall. "Another day?" she repeated, the words as cold as a marble floor. "I thought you understood how inflexible my deadlines are. The fitting prints for tomorrow's runway show leave no margin for delay. This report is overdue."
Regret coiled in my gut. "I know," I mumbled, lowering my gaze.
"Do not disappoint me again," she snapped. "Now, listen carefully: there is an urgent show tomorrow at noon. I have the final prototype ready. You will test it now, here in the studio. If it doesn't fit, immediately send it to the seamstress. Is that clear?"
I swallowed, nodding. My throat felt dry. "Yes, Ms. Leclair."
She crossed her arms and regarded me like a sculptor inspecting a block of marble before carving away imperfections. "Good. The garment is outside that fitting room." She pointed to a small door. "Change now. If that outfit is ruined, I will hold you responsible. Remember, you owe me that report by close of business today."
My heart felt like it might pound itself out of my chest as I edged toward the fitting room. Vivienne watched, expression unreadable, until I disappeared behind the curtain.
Inside, I found a rack holding a single piece: a midnight-blue sheer bodysuit with strategic panels of lace, cut to reveal the hips and tease the nipples through lace cups. The straps were thin, almost delicate, and the back was low, dipping between my shoulder blades. Paired next to it were matching thigh-high stockings and a pair of stiletto heels—black patent leather, towering five inches.
My breath hitched. This was far more revealing than anything I'd ever modeled. The sheer fabric would leave almost nothing to the imagination. Every nerve ending in my body flared as I stripped off my shirt, tie, and trousers, replacing them with the bodysuit. The lace cups pressed against my chest, pinching slightly. My stomach clenched. I tried to steady my breathing as I slid the stockings up my calves, the silky fabric whispering over my skin. Finally, I tucked on the heels. My calves quivered immediately under the weight, but even more disconcerting was the way the bodysuit clung between my thighs, the thin strap drawing a slow burn of heat through my groin.
I took a shaky breath, smoothed my hair from my face, and pushed aside the curtain. Vivienne stood under a single spotlight, sketchpad in hand, watching me.
"Turn around," she said, voice neutral but cold.
I obeyed instantly. My heart thundered as she scanned every inch of my body: the shape of my hips in the lace, the curve of my buttocks in the sheer panel, the gentle swell of my chest. My face felt aflame under her gaze. I straightened my posture, forcing my shoulders back, trying to exude confidence I didn't feel.
She circled me like a cat sizing up prey. When she reached my front again, I felt her eyes flick down to my crotch and jerk back up to my face as though it pained her to look. For a moment, I panicked that she might see the faint outline of arousal pressed against the lace—my resolve crumpled at the thought.
Her voice was a whisper, cutting through the thick tension: "You should have enough control to prevent that."
My breath caught. "I—" I started, but my cheeks burned at the implication that I'd betrayed her confidence.
Vivienne closed her sketchpad with a soft snap and crossed her arms. "You're not a professional model, Mr. Aldridge. A professional can wear any garment—and keep her composure. You, on the other hand, look like a deer caught in headlights."
I swallowed hard, my mouth suddenly dry. "I apologize, Ms. Leclair. I'll try to—"
"Try?" she snapped. "I don't want your try. I want results." She took a step closer, her stilettos clicking on the polished wood floor. "Right now, I see a man who doesn't know how to hide his arousal. I see a man who thinks exposing himself like this is cute or titillating. Here's a reality check: you're embarrassing me and this studio."
My heart sank. I forced my gaze downward, unable to meet her eyes. Shame pooled in my chest. I could feel the hot wetness growing again between my legs as though responding to her derision, and panic tightened my throat. I tried to shift slightly, hoping to quell it, but the strap dug into me and only made things worse.
Vivienne's lips curved in what might have been a grimace. "Look at that shine on the lace—to think that's your bodily fluid. My collection does not double as your personal sex toy." She shook her head, disappointment mixing with scorn. "Unprofessional in the extreme. I half-suspect you're getting off on your own humiliation."
Heat flamed in my cheeks. "I'm sorry," I whispered, unable to stop the quaver in my voice. My knees trembled so badly I feared I would collapse on the spot.
She cut her eyes at me for a long moment, as though weighing my worth. Then she glanced toward the assistant sketching in the corner. "Clean that up," she barked. "Send this to the back for cleaning or replacing—whatever it takes." The assistant flashed me a sympathetic glance before hurrying off.
Vivienne pivoted back to me, crossing her arms. "And you," she said, her voice slick with contempt, "will stay. You've already caused enough trouble with your shameful display. If I have to replace this garment, there will be consequences. Understand?"
I swallowed, voice trembling. "Yes. Ms. Leclair."
Her eyes flicked to my trembling legs. "Get on your knees."
My heart slammed against my ribs. Before I could protest, the order felt like it slammed into me, pressing me down. I sank to my knees, heels stabilizing me even as my legs shook. The bodysuit's strap dug deeper into me as I knelt, heightening my panic. My hands twisted together in my lap, nails digging into my palms as though I could anchor myself to reality.
Vivienne stepped forward, her heel brushing my knee. "You want to apologize? Use your body. If you're going to degrade my designs with your uncontrolled reaction, then you will compensate."
My breath caught. She unzipped her blazer, letting it fall to the floor. Underneath, she wore a silk camisole and matching panties that hinted at the curves beneath. The sight sent another rush of heat through me, and I felt my knees go even weaker, as though I might collapse. Her gaze flicked to my crotch again, and a silent command filled the space between us: You owe me.
I forced myself to remain on my knees, but a tremor shook my entire frame. Vivienne lifted her foot, pressing the toe of her stiletto against my chest. Her voice was low, almost lazy: "Mouth first. Demonstrate some professional skill."
I pressed my hands into the wooden floor, forcing myself to remain steady. My lips parted, and I leaned forward, gently brushing them against the lace of her panties. The silk was cool, almost slick, and I tasted the faintest tang of her arousal. With slow, deliberate movements, I edged her panties aside, exposing the damp warmth beneath. My tongue flicked at her folds, tentative at first, then more firmly as I felt her warmth spread across my senses. The sweetness of her desire filled me, mixing with the guilt that I was so aroused that I'd ruined her garment.
Vivienne let out a low hum. "That's right," she murmured. Her hand found the back of my head, anchoring me. "Show me how desperate you are to atone."
I redoubled my effort. Every nerve in my mouth and throat burned at the contact with her, my cheeks flushing as I tasted her more fully. My body responded despite my shame—my arousal pressed against the lace at my crotch, threatening to stain even this moment of penance. My heart pounded as Vivienne's breathing grew heavier, spurring me on.
When at last I felt her hips jerk forward in a slow, powerful pulse, I straightened, gasping. She pushed me back onto my knees and stepped away, slipping into her shoes and tugging on her blazer. "You better hope the seamstress can salvage this," she said sharply. "Because you will owe me many more compensations if you touch another prototype like that."
My cheeks burned hot enough to flush my entire face. I remained kneeling, my forehead pressing against the floor, words lodged in my throat. I dared not look up.
Vivienne circled me one last time, her footsteps echoing, each step a reminder of how utterly powerless I was under her command. "When you rise," she said finally, "bring me coffee. Black, no sugar—and be back here in ten minutes. Or are you too frail to serve?"
I rose on trembling legs, knees weak from both the heels and my shame. I bowed my head. "Yes, Ms. Leclair."
She watched me go, a faint, satisfied smile playing on her lips. I stumbled out of the room, throat dry and ears ringing with her last words. As I locked myself in the pantry to brew her coffee, my hands shook the grounds into the filter, and my heart burned with a mix of humiliation, regret, and a flicker of something darker—something that thrived in the knowledge of how completely she could bend me to her will.
When I returned to her office, offering the coffee on a silver tray, Vivienne glanced up. "You delivered," she said curtly. "Sit. Write out your apology in full now—no more excuses."
I sank onto the hard wooden chair, picked up a fresh sheet of stationery, and wrote:
I apologize for my unprofessional reaction, and for the damage I caused to your design. I understand the gravity of my actions and accept all consequences. I am committed to proving my worth through actions, not words.
I read it over, pressed a shaky signature, and slid it across the desk. She tore off the top half, crumpled it into a fist, and tossed it into the wastebasket. "Keep this version for later. I may have more uses for it."
As I rose to leave, my legs so numb I nearly collapsed, I realized just how deep I was in her power—and how eager I was to remain there. The stolen report, the ruined prototype, the agony of exposure—all had entrenched me further in her world. For every moment of shame she inflicted, I felt a compelling, desperate need to prove myself worthy—no matter how debased the act. Because in Vivienne's studio, professional success and personal surrender were inextricably intertwined, and I was powerless to resist her demands.
